


What You Need to Hear

by ilostmyshoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilostmyshoe/pseuds/ilostmyshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulless Sam leaves a message for himself if/when Dean puts his soul back.</p><p>"So, yeah, there’s a probability of approximately zero of this being listened to by a rational, re-souled Sam Winchester. But hey, that still leaves a tiny chance. If you do survive, there is some shit that I want to say to you, and this is the only remotely plausible way I can see for that to happen. </p><p>Besides, I have some time to kill; without a hunt or a fuck these “wee hours of the morning” really suck balls, and Dean has been cock-blocking me on both fronts lately, so let’s do this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Need to Hear

Let’s be honest. There is a good chance that you will never hear this message. Hopefully I’ll be able to stop Dean’s crazy plan and can keep living pretty much the way I have been. I realize that leaves you in the cage with Lucifer, and that sucks for you, but it’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

It’s basically self-defense, since the alternative is that you get put back in this body and I effectively cease to exist. Beyond that, me staying just makes more sense, since the general consensus is that the whole re-souling process will most likely kill you, and in the unlikely event that you survive you are almost guaranteed to be all new levels of bat-shit crazy.

So, yeah, there’s a probability of approximately zero of this being listened to by a rational, re-souled Sam Winchester. But hey, that still leaves a tiny chance. If you do survive, there is some shit that I want to say to you, and this is the only remotely plausible way I can see for that to happen.

Besides, I have some time to kill; without a hunt or a fuck these “wee hours of the morning” really suck balls, and Dean has been cock-blocking me on both fronts lately, so let’s do this.

*     *     *

First off, before you start listening to this, do us both a favor and pretend I’m some anonymous monster. Just a random bit of supernatural trash smashed against the windshield on your masochistic road trip to crazy town. I think it’ll make it easier for you to be objective about this, and let’s be honest. We both know that your default is empathy and an open mind for anyone who isn’t you. I just want you to grant me that same attitude.

Second, let’s be clear about my goal here. When Dean found out about the whole whoops-where’s-Sam’s-Soul debacle he wanted to play my conscience, my Jiminy Cricket. I don’t want to play the angel or devil on your shoulder; you’ve had enough of both for a hundred life times. But it’s been far too long since you took a logical, dispassionate look at your life, and I’m eminently qualified to walk you through it. C’mon Sam. Let me be your lawyer. Pay careful attention as I walk you through your (my) defense. Remember that the outcome may decide your fate.

*     *     *

1) On my lack of a soul: I’ll just start by saying the obvious – there was no way for me to know that I didn’t have a soul. None. I can’t predict how much, if any, of my experiences you’ll remember, but understand that the way I felt when I came back wasn’t new. Remember the first Wednesday that came after all of those Tuesdays? Remember the months after it? Yeah. I thought so.  That’s what it felt like when I came back from the cage. I hunted and I killed. I made goals and got shit done, and everything was simple and clear.

Sure I knew that there were feelings that I wasn’t dealing with, but I never questioned it, because I knew what the alternative was. I could have felt like I did when Dean went to hell for real in New Harmony. Think about that for just a moment, and you’ll understand why I counted myself lucky to not feel a god damn thing.

It made it easy to give Dean the space he needed, made it easy to move on and get to work. So that’s what I did. I suppose I could have stopped to agonize about why it wasn’t harder, why I wasn’t incapacitated by angst, but that option seemed notably less useful than sticking my thumb up my ass, so I didn’t bother. (Aside #1: Sticking fingers in one’s ass, on the other hand, can at least be an enjoyable way to pass the time. More on that later.)

Honestly, the first time I started to realize something was wrong was the moment I hugged Dean. I admit to delaying the reunion as long as possible, but that was only because I’d imagined it so many times. I remembered how the hug in Jackson County felt. In your words (thoughts) it was “like the world had re-aligned with its axis, my heart had recovered its natural rhythm, my mind had reconnected with my body, and the air was saturated by the flood of my emotions.” It was some fucked up shit, and the memory still makes me uncomfortable. I rationally assumed that another reunion with Dean would be similar, and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

The reality, however, was vexing in an entirely different way. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by sappiness, which was great. But it was more like the emotional equivalent of noticing that your foot has fallen asleep, simultaneously numbed, painful, maddening, and disconnected. Once it started it didn’t matter what I was doing – researching, fighting, or fucking – it was a constant buzzing in the background. Being closer to Dean only exacerbated it, until the feeling became a dull roar that threatened to drown out everything else.

So yes, I realized at that point that there was a problem. I knew I should just leave again. Every time I asked Dean to come with me I mentally kicked myself. His reluctance proved that on some level he sensed that there was something wrong, and I knew I wouldn’t like his reaction when he figured it out. Still, I kept asking, kept reaching out because the feelings I got from being with him were undeniably uncomfortable, but irritatingly, irrationally addictive at the same time. I found myself compulsively obsessing over him, like a piece of food stuck between my teeth or a cluster of mosquito bites that refuse to heal. I found myself glad that I had never visited before, because now it was impossible to stay away.

2) On not visiting Dean: Out of everything that I’ve done, Dean’s biggest complaint is that I left him alone for a year and didn’t let him know that I was alive. He claims to hate playing “Who’s Got Sam’s Soul?” but I think it actually comforts him. It reassures him that if it had really been _you_ then he never would have been alone for so long. Maybe he’s wrong about that; maybe he’s right. You’d know better than I would, but that’s not the point.

The point is: _he needed the break_. He’s always craved that normal life. He’d never admit it, but it was glaringly obvious in his heaven and in our dream-root facilitated mind meld. He wanted a stable family: a hand to hold, a kid to raise, and a house to call home. What happened in hell sliced him into ribbons, and each hunt afterwards unraveled him further, until he was holding on by a thread. (Aside #2: You’re welcome for the visual imagery, by the way; don’t deny that part of you appreciates it.)

When he was hunting he was a risk to himself, his partner, and everyone around him. He needed a lengthy, enforced shore leave to put himself back together, and he never would have stayed if he knew that (I, you, we) his brother was out there hunting. He’ll never believe it, but I needed to stay gone. It was in his best interest. You probably couldn’t have done it, but you should at least be able to understand why it was the right thing to do. (Aside #3: Unless, of course, hell completely melted your brain into mush, in which case this is all a waste of time and we’re both screwed, so what the fuck, right?)

3) On starting the apocalypse: _You made the right choice._ I can already hear the protests: Blah blah pride, blah blah overconfidence, blah blah sin. Road to hell, good intentions–whatever the fuck, man. Dean, you, Bobby, everybody though Lilith had to die; you’re just the one that got that shit done and then got all of the blame for the results.

Sure, it sucks ass that you got played by Ruby. Dean got played by the angels just as badly. So how come you’re the only one who gets shit on? You looked at the choices, saw that none of them were good, and made the best possible call. Dean did the same thing when he sold his soul. He got sent to hell and broke the first seal by torturing people; you killed a demon and started the apocalypse. Same difference. The world moves on.

But then you went on the whole self-flagellation, self-hatred kick. “I’m the least of all of you.” “You can never punish me as much as I’m punishing myself.” What’s the point? You have to realize that self-sacrifice and self-negation for its own sake is bullshit masochistic masturbation that never helped anyone. All it does is result in a life where you sit in the dark alone and angst when you could be having enjoyable sex with not-particularly-smelly hippie chicks. (Aside #4: More on sex, missed opportunities, and indulgence in physical pleasure later.)

4) On civilian deaths and guilt: Don’t you _dare_ feel guilty for the dumb civilians who got iced during my year hunting with the Campbells. The obvious reason for this is that _you_ didn’t do it; _I_ did. But I have all of your memories, so I’m not going to pretend that will make a difference to you, no matter how rational it is. Sigh. Souls are such a pain in my ass even when I don’t have one.

For argument’s sake, consider this scenario: you’re in a situation where a monster is hiding behind a civilian. You hesitate and maybe even save the civy. The monster gets away and kills a couple more civilians before you finally manage to track it down again and kill it. Then, of course, you take a night or three to agonize about your failures.

In the same situation, I shoot the monster through its human shield.  Bam. The end. I clean up the bodies of the monster and civilian, then I’m on to the next case with some extra time for a hook-up if there’re any promising candidates in the area.

End result? My civilian casualty rate was about the same as you and your brother had, and my capture/kill rate was _higher_. You sat in the dark and felt remorse for the people you couldn’t save. How noble of you. I got shit done. Then I moved on and got more shit done somewhere else.

Here’s the lynch pin in my argument. (Aside #5: I think the lawyer in you will really appreciate this.) Suppose you come back and spend your time bitching about all the time I saved because of the people I didn’t. Now _you’re_ wasting time that you could be saving other people. Basically you’re just making it so my casualties died in vain. God, Sammy, how could you be so insensitive? Show some respect for the dead.

5) On sex: This may surprise you, but I won’t bitch at you for abstaining for sex if you don’t bitch at me for having it. I know you’ve developed this whole hang up of not wanting to be “like Dean” in that sense, and you totally ignore the fact that in spite of making a big deal about being “re-hymenated,” Dean hasn’t slept around much since he came back from hell. You already know that your issues aren’t logical, so there’s no point in debate.

On the positive side, the sex you _have_ had makes for some quality spank bank material, so you have my thanks for that. (Aside #6: Mmmm . . . kinky werewolf sex . . .)

But dude, the masturbating? I _cannot_ let that slide. Your only long-term sexual relationship is with your own hand; you’ve got to cut yourself a fucking break. Lose the denial that’s motivating all of that Zen, blank-mind jerking in the shower. Yes, I know you do it because you’re scared of where your mind wants to go. I don’t give a shit. It’s only a fucking fantasy, Sam; just let it go there already.

I did, and let me tell you, it’s beyond worth it. The first time I imagined him on his knees, kneading my ass while he swallowed around my cock, I came like a fucking freight train. When I fingered myself on the bed and imagined him fucking me into the mattress I came without laying a finger on my cock. I’m guessing fantasizing may make you feel a bit guilty, but getting off on guilt is part of that whole masochism thing you’ve got going on anyway, right?

6) On Dean: I don’t expect you to understand how I feel about Dean. I don’t really understand how I feel about Dean. He’s annoying and impulsive and sentimental and brave and creative and stupid and brilliant and self-destructive and hot as hell. I remember how you used to feel about him, and compared to that I barely care about him at all. But he still manages to eclipse everything else and drive me crazy.

If you’d asked me a year ago I’d have said that any person or monster who hit me would be dead before he got a chance to do it a second time, but when Dean beat me I just sat there and took it. I remembered you doing the same thing years ago and cursed your weakness along with my own, but I still couldn’t bring myself to even block the punches. I think I must have gotten a fucking concussion for my trouble, or at least lost a fair number of brain cells, because when Dean had Cas check me for a soul I remember thinking the look of betrayal in my brother’s eyes hurt more than the angel’s hand in my chest.

I know Dean hates me because I’m not you, because I’m a reminder that you’re stuck in hell. Unfortunately, that doesn’t keep me from waiting around for any hint of affection he might show me, like a pathetic dog begging for scraps. All of which is exactly the type of emo bullshit I’m supposed be able to avoid by not having a soul, but it’s happening anyway. Fuck all of it.

I know Dean doesn’t care about me except as a body for you to come back to. Maybe that’s why he’s not as careful to hide how he feels around me. Or maybe I’m just able to see it more clearly with less emotional interference. But here’s the last thing you need to understand: your brother’s crazy about you. Not just in the sense where he’d be willing to give you anything, but in the sense where he _wants_ to give you _everything_. He won’t even touch me and I’m following him around like a lost puppy. If you get back here and don’t take him up on everything he’s willing to give then you’re a fucking idiot and I’m glad I won’t be here to see it.

 


End file.
